When Stars Fade
by Thera Elise
Summary: "I'm not your charity case, Granger! I don't need your pity!" When Draco gets bitten by a werewolf while on Ministry duty, it's up to Hermione to pick up the pieces and save him from himself. Post-Hogwarts. Not compliant with Deathly Hallows' epilogue.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** Harry Potter and co. belong to J.K. Rowling. (Although I do wish I owned Werewolf!Draco, sigh...)

* * *

**Chapter One**

Hermione Granger was not amused.

She had just spent the better part of an hour scowling at Malfoy and his childish antics. She knew it was him; who else would have the gall to create such unnecessary ruckus during a serious departmental meeting? Who, for instance, would have the nerve to send the Department Head's toupee flying off across the room, sideburns flapping like tiny hairy wings, a feat that was met with a roar of laughter but cost poor old Eddard Dodderidge his dearest pride? The all-too-familiar smirk on Malfoy's face was all the evidence Hermione needed to pin him as the culprit.

_Really,_ she thought to herself with a sniff of disdain, _some people never change_.

"… And that's it on new dragon regulations," intoned old Eddard, a hint of an embarrassed flush still lingering around his cheeks. Nobody had the heart to point out that the hastily-placed toupee sitting on his head had a rather large dust bunny clinging on to it as a result of its unfortunate crash landing. "Well, erm, if that's all, I suppose we can end the meeting here. Does anyone have any questions?"

"Sir!" Hermione raised her hand. There was a collective yet silent groan around the table. As always, she chose to ignore it. "Sir! I was wondering if I could have a word about the dire need for house-elf reforms?"

Eddard Dodderidge peered at her through his foggy glasses, leaning so far forward that his toupee threatened to slip down to his nose. Truth be told, in all his years as the Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, he had never met someone with as much tenacity and persistence as this Hermione Granger. She has never—not once—failed to bring up the topic of house-elf reforms at the end of every departmental meeting since she started here at the Ministry. Eddard was duly impressed and not a little bewildered.

"I don't know, Miss Granger, I'm sure we all need to be getting back to work—"

"Please, sir! It would just be a moment, I assure you!"

Old Eddard sighed. There was another silent groan around the table, with Malfoy shooting her a particularly nasty look. Hermione suppressed a smile; she knew she had just won the battle, as always.

"Very well, Miss Granger. Five minutes."

And so, for five valuable minutes, Hermione launched into an impassioned speech about the plight of house-elves, their need for better treatment and respect from wizards and witches, and the societal benefits of having reforms in place. She could see Malfoy emit a loud, theatrical yawn from the corner of her eye, but she didn't care—she only had five minutes once every two weeks to make her point across, and sooner or later she knew she was bound to get through to them.

When more and more people started to shift in their seats, Eddard finally raised a hand to put an end to Hermione's rant. "All right, all right, settle down. Thank you for your input, Miss Granger. We shall, of course, come back to the subject of house-elf reforms at a later time. Meeting adjourned."

"Congrats, Granger," said Malfoy as they passed each other on the way out. "You put me to sleep nearly a minute earlier than the last meeting."

"Eat dung, Malfoy," she hissed through gritted teeth.

"Tsk tsk. Such foul words, Miss Granger. What would your precious geriatric lover, Eddard, say?"

Then with a last parting sneer, he turned a corner and was gone.

_Git! _thought Hermione, fuming beneath her breath. It didn't matter that they saved his skin during the War; Malfoy was still, and will always be, a grade-A git.

"Mione! Oi, Mione!"

She turned around just in time to see Ron bounding toward her. He was wearing his violet Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes robes which clashed horribly with his hair. But violet robes be damned, the sight of him put a smile on Hermione's face.

"Ron! What are you doing here?" she chided him, though secretly pleased to see him. "It's the middle of the work day!"

The tall, lanky redhead merely shrugged and shot her his trademark boyish grin. "Oh relax, Mione. George can handle the crowd by himself for an hour or two." He looked around, casting furtive glances at the people passing by. "Actually… there's something I want to ask you. Can we pop into your office for a minute?"

Suddenly, quite out of nowhere, Hermione's heart began pounding at a much faster rate, and she distinctly heard herself say yes to Ron before her feet led them down the hall toward her office.

Snippets of frenzied thoughts were whizzing through her brain.

_Could it be…? Could he be…? But now? Surely not here, in the Ministry of Magic of all places? _

Merlin, she needed to breathe.

Once they reached her office, Hermione darted to the safety of her desk, almost as if sitting behind it was going to steel her for whatever Ron was going to ask her.

She did not, however, expect him to ask: "Blimey! What happened to your desk?"

"What do you mean?" asked Hermione with a frown.

"Well, for one thing, it looks like a mini-tornado has hit it and dumped a bunch of parchment and bits of broken quills in its wake!" exclaimed Ron, looking thoroughly flabbergasted.

"Oh, that. My last research assignment was a bit extensive, that's all. Sixteenth-century house-elf conditions, mind you. Not a particularly easy subject to look up."

"No, I don't suppose not," said Ron with an amused expression on his face. He deposited his lanky frame onto an empty armchair with a loud _flump_! before stating with all sincerity: "You're remarkable, you know that?"

She could feel her cheeks grow hot.

"Oh now, really, Ron! Why'd you say that for?" she stammered, tucking an errant curl behind her ear.

"Because it's the truth," he said simply, grinning. "Okay, before I forget, I wanted to ask you—"

Hermione's heart skipped a beat.

_Oh sweet Merlin. Here goes._

"—that is, I wanted to see if you—"

_Ohmygod. Ohmygod. Ohmygod_.

"—were free this Thursday night?"

One second of silence.

Two seconds.

At Hermione's blank look, Ron's ears reddened slightly. "Err… that is, you know… if you're not busy…"

Finally, she snapped to. "Yes! Of—of course I'm free, Ron. What d'you have in mind?"

And as Ron happily told her all about this trendy little place in Diagon Alley with the best medium-rare dragon steaks around, Hermione couldn't help but feel a confusing mix of relief and disappointment wash over her. She tried to shake it off as best as she could, but she could tell that Ron grew more and more suspicious the longer he stayed.

So, after insisting that Ron should pop in to see Harry at the Auror Headquarters, Hermione finally managed to get him out the door. But then, the minute he left, the wave of emotions that crashed upon her was so overwhelming that it was all Hermione could do not to scream out loud.

She didn't know what she wanted. Not a clue. And that vacillation was the thing that scared her the most.

Before she could really sink into a proper state of self-hatred, however, a pale-violet memo slipped in through the crack at the bottom of her door and—instead of landing on her desk like it usually would—aimed straight for her hand.

"All right, all right, I'm opening it," she muttered as the memo jabbed her hand repeatedly.

Frowning, she began to read the hastily scribbled note.

_Hermione:_

_URGENT NEWS—Werewolf on the loose at Hogwarts grounds. A student may have been bitten. The Werewolf Capture Unit has been dispatched, but so is the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. Malfoy is apparently with them. I need you there as soon as possible—your presence might make the difference between a fair trial and a bloody execution for the werewolf._

_P.S. The Daily Prophet has not been notified, so I urge you to try and keep any developments as confidential as possible._

_Many thanks,  
__Kingsley__  
_

Hermione's head swam as she re-read the note, refusing to believe the words staring up at her. Werewolf? At Hogwarts? A student—_bitten_?

And Malfoy…

She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. If Malfoy had been dispatched, that werewolf's fate was as good as sealed.

Her mind drifted back to all those years ago, back when she, Ron, and Harry were little more than children, cowering in the dust-covered corner of an abandoned shack, listening to their Defense Against the Dark Arts professor confirm that he was indeed a werewolf… Listening to him say that he'd had no control, none whatsoever, once he'd transformed… That he had bitten and hurt himself when there was no other human to bite…

Hermione's eyes flew open. About this, there was no question in her mind. She knew what she had to do.

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**Author's Note:** Thanks for reading! I hope to read and learn from every review, so any thoughts/comments would be much appreciated. I know there's not much going on yet, but I promise that the next chapter is going to be ACTION-PACKED! (Werewolf!Draco SQUEEE!)


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_It was always the same dream. The dark, dank cell. The stench of centuries-old mildew thick in his throat. And the screams—the screams were everywhere and nowhere, pressing in on all sides, making the walls throb around him. They burned his chest and raked his soul. He was going to rip apart—there's no way, no possible way he could get through this alive—he was going to tear in two, he was going to shatter into a million pieces, he was going to die, die, die, over and over again—die a thousand deaths to the sound of that shrill, high-pitched laughter…_

"…MALFOY!"

He gasped and sat bolt upright in his tiny cubicle, nearly colliding into the gigantic, hairy nose hovering above him. A second later, Draco realized, with a heavy sense of doom, that the nose was attached to a wizened old wizard with many quivering jowls and a temper fiercer than a Hungarian Horntail.

In other words: his boss.

Flavius Octavius Rippenhorn used to be a legend—in the magizoology world, that is. Rumor had it that he wrestled with an acromantula and played sweet, sweet music to a pack of chimaeras. But unlike his rival Newt Scamander, Flavius was no academic—in fact, he could barely write his own name—and so his travels and "research" were of a far more experiential vein and thus largely dismissed by the public as sensationalist garbage. He now spent his days as the Chairman of the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, and—as far as Draco could tell—making his junior associates' lives a living hell.

"MALFOY, IF YOU THINK YOU CAN GO GALLIVANTING OFF TO LA-LA LAND ON MY WATCH, THEN THINK AGAIN, YOUNG MAN!" bellowed Flavius Octavius Rippenhorn. For such a wheezy-looking old man, he had quite a pair of lungs. "IF YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST _SKATE_ BY"—flecks of spit hit Draco's eyes—"THEN YOU'VE GOT ANOTHER THINK COMING, YOU WHIPPERSNAPPER. JUST SCOOT ON OUT OF HERE, GO ON! _SCOOT_!"

Sadly enough, Draco was used to this. In fact, this was not the very worst he'd received during his time at the Ministry thus far. Flavius seemed to have made it his sole purpose in life to scream at his personnel at least twice a day. He called it "exercise for his lungs." Draco called it "a nasty afternoon spit-shower."

In any case, he knew what to do when Flavius was all in a temper.

Draco adopted his frostiest demeanor and said in a stone-cold voice: "And where, precisely, am I scooting off to?"

As his mother always said: parry madness with austerity.

"WHERE? WHERE, HE ASKS? WHY, TO HOGWARTS, OF COURSE, YOU BRAINLESS PANSY!"

Draco blinked. Now _that_ he had not expected. Since when did Flavius give direct answers?

"Excuse me?"

Flavius was eyeing him as if he was a moron. "YOU"—he pointed at Draco—"GO"—two of his arthritic fingers mimed walking—"HOGWARTS"—his arms made a triangle above his head—"NOOOOW!"

"But what for?" asked Draco, starting to get angry. What in Merlin's name was Flavius playing at? Had he finally gone senile?

"BULSTRODE!" barked Flavius.

"S-sir?" said Malcolm, Millicent Bulstrode's ogre-like brother, from the next cubicle.

"TELL MALFOY WHAT I WAS DEBRIEFING YOU LOT ON WHILE HE WAS HAVING HIS BEAUTY SLEEP!"

"Errgh…" muttered Malcolm, clearly at a loss for words (no surprises there). "Errr… Wolves?" When Flavius said nothing and only swelled up like an angry, red bullfrog, Malcolm quickly added, "Errrr… W-wolf… Men… Wolfman… Werewolves?"

"CORRECT," boomed the old man. "FIVE POINTS FOR THE BLITHERIN' IDIOT." And with a well-aimed smack to the back of his head, Flavius sent Malcolm's face crashing down on his table with a sickening crack.

"Werewolves?" Draco repeated, now more confused than angry. "You want me to go to Hogwarts… because of werewolves?"

Flavius appeared to have topped his lungs' capacity for the day, for he simply wheezed, "Not werewolves—_a_ werewolf. One. Singular. Found on the grounds."

Draco couldn't believe his ears. He even started to laugh—loud, short guffaws that seemed to suggest that he knew what Flavius was up to, knew the old man was just pulling his leg. But a glance around the room at the grim faces of the others caused the laughter to curdle on his tongue like sour milk.

He stared at Flavius.

"And you want me to _catch_ the werewolf?"

"No. The Werewolf Capture Unit can do that," said Flavius breezily. He looked Malfoy dead in the eyes and simply said: "I want you to _kill_ it."

* * *

Now Draco had been called a lot of things in his life. Arrogant. Bigot. Even spoiled bastard. But _stupid_ was not one of them. And striding across the Hogwarts grounds now in the feeble late-morning sun, he certainly felt every bit as stupid as the troll-like human being trundling along beside him.

"Errgh, Malfoy?" grunted Malcolm, scratching his head. "How're we gonna, you know, get the werewolf to stand still long enough?" When Draco shot him a withering look, Malcolm went on to say, "'Cus I don't s'pose he'll stand still, will he?"

"No, Malcolm," spat Draco, disgusted with the level of stupidity he was dealing with. "He's not going to stand still when you're about to chop his head off. We're gonna use your entrails as bait, obviously."

But before Bulstrode could scrunch up his brain to figure out what "entrails" meant, a tall, familiar figure made its way toward them from the small group of people standing by the Herbology greenhouses.

"Well, if it isn't Draco Malfoy!" said Theodore Nott with gusto, his mouth and arms wide as if to greet old friends. It would have all been fine and dandy, except for the very crucial fact that Draco _despised_ Nott.

He narrowed his eyes. "Nott."

Nott only chuckled. "Now, now, what's this surname nonsense? Theo would suffice, I think, Draco. How's life treating you?"

Draco stiffened as Nott clapped his shoulder in a good-natured way. "Great. An absolute hoot."

"Same here, same here!" said Nott cheerfully, as if Draco had asked him how he was doing. "Can't say life hasn't been kind to me. I s'pose you've read all about it in the _Prophet_, of course. Three beasts in a month! These days they call me the Wolf Hunter." Nott gave a loud, hearty guffaw. "Can you imagine them calling me that when we were back in school?"

It was meant as a self-deprecating comment, but Draco honestly couldn't imagine a less likely Wolf Hunter than the thin, weedy Theodore Nott of their Hogwarts days. _That_ was the Nott he knew best, not this insufferable, fame-obsessed Gilderoy Lockhart wannabe. Granted, Nott was no longer the underfed teenager he was at Hogwarts, but Draco hadn't trusted him then and he wasn't about to start now. It was like his father always said—the meek, quiet ones were the ones you have to watch out for. In the past couple of years, there were rumors floating around that Nott had sold out his own father to the Ministry in exchange for a job. The Malfoys may have defected in the end, but they would have never _ever_ betrayed each other. To Draco, Nott was as bad of a blood traitor as a Weasley.

So, in a tone dripping with ice, Draco replied, "I agree. What a ridiculous nickname."

The coolness in his tone must not have escaped Nott's notice for the latter's eyes immediately narrowed with contempt. But, as the voices and footsteps of other people approached them, that glint of contempt in Nott's eyes was gone as quickly as it had arrived.

"Malfoy! _What_ do you think you're doing here?!" screeched a familiar—and thoroughly unwelcome—voice behind him.

Draco groaned inwardly and turned around.

Sure enough, there was Hermione Granger, Mudblood extraordinaire and one-third of the trio that had been the bane of Malfoy's adolescent and adult existence. She was standing right behind him, hands propped on her hips, her bushy brown hair positively crackling with self-righteous anger.

"Why, I could ask the same of you, Granger," said Draco smoothly, his mouth already curving upward in a sneer. "I don't think there's hardly a need here for the—ah—Office of Interspecies Reconciliation, do you?"

Granger stiffened almost instantaneously. "The Minister of Magic himself asked me to come here. And I think there _is_ going to be a need for me, especially if you and your crony"—she jerked her head toward Malcolm who was staring blankly at them all—"are planning to wreak havoc!"

Draco pretended to look offended. "Us? Wreak havoc? The only havoc happening here is Malcolm's atrociously bad breath—"

The sound of a throat clearing interrupted Draco mid-sentence.

"Actually," said Nott with a hint of amusement, "since we're on the subject of who doesn't belong here, I'd like to know why _both_ of you have shown up." Four burly wizards had suddenly appeared behind him; Draco saw that they were the same group who were by the Herbology greenhouses just moments ago. "You see, _we're_ the Werewolf Capture Unit," said Nott, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at the men behind him, "not you guys."

Granger's cheeks instantly reddened. Draco, having had no such decency where Nott was concerned, merely glared at him in return.

"We're here on our superiors' orders, and that's all you need to know, Nott," spat Draco, fuming. He refused to meet Granger's shocked glance. He knew what she was thinking. He couldn't believe he had associated himself with her, too.

"Oh, thank God you're all here!" called out another familiar—yet also unwelcome—voice, punctuating the thick-as-butter tension in the air.

"Neville! How are you?" greeted Hermione, embracing the round-faced man who had just stepped off the castle's steps to meet them. Draco, Nott, and the other men just nodded at him in acknowledgement.

Professor Neville Longbottom seemed too flustered to offer much more than a nod himself. "I've been better, Hermione—though thanks for asking—much appreciated." He motioned for them to follow him. Draco noticed that his hand was trembling ever so slightly. "Now if you'll all just follow me this way. He's chained up over there, a bit beyond Hagrid's hut, just inside the forest…"

He and Granger walked ahead, while Draco and the others followed close behind. The sun was high in the sky now, meaning it had to be nearing noon. It struck Draco as odd that the grounds were so empty in the middle of a school day; not a single student was in sight. In fact, it was so quiet that Draco could hear every word Granger and Longbottom were saying from where he was, though they spoke in semi-hushed tones.

"So… who was it, Neville? Which student was attacked?"

There was a pause before Longbottom choked out: "Dennis Creevey."

Granger gasped.

"I know. I don't think he ever got over his brother's death, to tell you the truth. Went a bit wild. Reckless." Longbottom shook his head and his tone was fiercer when he said, "It was foolish—utterly _foolish_—to go into the forest at night, even if it was on a dare. I don't know what he was thinking… But anyway, his friends said he wasn't in the forest for too long before the werewolf jumped out of nowhere. You should have seen the bite, Hermione. His entire arm was nearly severed… I've never seen Madam Pomfrey so frantic."

"And this all happened last night?"

Longbottom nodded. "His friends—if you could even call them that—came running into the castle in the middle of the night, screaming their heads off. Woke half the castle up. A few of us went down there after we heard what happened, but the werewolf was nowhere in sight. We brought Dennis up to the hospital wing just as the sun was rising."

"But I don't understand—why wasn't the Ministry notified earlier? We could have done something—the Werewolf Capture Unit could've been notified sooner—"

Here, Nott spoke up, startling Draco. He must have been listening in on their conversation, too, just as Draco was.

"Our Unit was notified early this morning," said Nott. "But since we were in a no-Apparition zone at the time, it took quite some time to get here."

Draco caught him exchange a glance with one of the other wizards in his unit—a tall, muscular bloke who looked a bit like an auburn-haired gorilla—but before Draco could figure out what it all meant, Granger opened her mouth.

"Still—we were in a departmental meeting all morning—surely someone could have delivered a message or—"

"Or, God forbid, interrupt you in the middle of your tiresome tirade on house-elf reforms, Granger?" cut in Draco snidely, smirking at the rage flashing in Granger's eyes.

But Longbottom merely sighed and shook his head once more. "Not like it matters, though, does it? Look around you. Classes have been cancelled. Parents have started pulling out their kids as early as seven o'clock this morning. The other students are under strict orders to remain in their common rooms. A werewolf on the loose at Hogwarts! It's unheard of!"

They had walked twenty or so paces past Hagrid's hut—and veering dangerously close to the shadowy edge of the forest, Draco thought—when Longbottom suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.

"We're here." was all he said.

At first, Draco didn't know what he was talking about. They had stopped just beneath a clump of close-knitted trees, and Draco had to blink several times for his eyes to adjust to the cool dimness of the forest. And that was when the rough outline of a paddock shifted into focus, and he realized what he was staring at.

A brief but loaded silence fell over them.

"Longbottom," Draco heard himself say, sounding oddly strained. "I thought you said the werewolf _was nowhere to be found_!"

The useless dolt merely nodded, looking extremely grave. "It's true. We never found him. But"—and here, Longbottom gestured at the paddock—"he showed up at the edge of the forest this morning—in human form, mind you—expressing remorse for what he did last night."

Draco closed his eyes. And opened them again. But the paddock was still there, as was the shabby-looking man huddled in the corner, the iron shackles at his wrists and ankles attached to a thick chain that was wound around a gigantic oak nearby.

Even Nott looked surprised. "That's him? The werewolf?"

Again, Longbottom nodded. "Yes. We notified your unit, not so that you could catch him, but so that you could decide what to do with him."

And that was when, much to Draco's chagrin, Malcolm unsheathed the axe he'd hidden within the folds of his cloak.

"That's easy," said Malcolm in his slow, rumbling voice. "We kill him. Right, Draco?"

But before Draco could even open his mouth, Granger—who had thus far remained silent—suddenly stepped forward, turned her back on the paddock to face them, and flung both arms out as if to protect the paddock—and its lone inhabitant—from them.

She was looking right at Malfoy as she said loudly, bristling with indignation, "Absolutely NOT! Over my dead body!"

Draco stared at her. Could she _be _any more insane!? Even Longbottom looked shocked.

"Hermione…" whispered Longbottom, casting nervous glances at the pile of rags in the corner of the paddock. "I'm sure they're not going to… If we could just discuss this quietly…"

But it was too late. The pile of rags had stirred. The werewolf was awake.

In a flash, Nott and his buddies had whipped out their wands. Draco hastily followed suit.

The werewolf, however, did not even turn to look at them. He merely shifted around a bit amidst a series of clinks and clanks from the chain and shackles before curling up again, motionless.

Draco breathed a sigh of relief. A werewolf in human form, no matter how much he looked like a harmless tramp, was a monster nevertheless. He was glad to see that wands were lowered but not stowed away. He was even glad for the axe in Malcolm's hand.

Granger, however, did not seem to be thinking along the same lines as him. In fact, she had whipped out her wand, not to point it at the werewolf, but at _him_—Draco. Her face was set with grim determination, and every inch of it looked like she was ready to hex him to oblivion.

"If you think I'm just going to stand idly by and watch you _murder_ that poor creature without due process, then you are sorely mistaken, Malfoy!"

Draco's jaw dropped. "Poor creature? _Poor_ creature?! Granger, he nearly killed a student! That's not a poor creature—that's a _monster_!"

He could feel his blood start to boil; he couldn't believe how irrational she was being. House-elves were bad enough, but _werewolves_? They were monsters—beasts—fit only to be killed!

"_You're_ the monster for wanting to chop off his head without a legitimate trial!"

"WHAT IS THERE TO TRY?" roared Draco, seeing red. "He almost killed a student—an innocent life—and now he deserves death himself!"

Granger scoffed. "Don't you talk about _innocence_, Malfoy! You don't care about Dennis Creevey at all! You only care about how good it would look to have 'executed a werewolf' on your file!"

"Oh, stop playing the saint, Granger! If you cared about the kid so much, then why are you defending his attacker? You realize that Creevey kid is going to spend the rest of his life as a _werewolf_ now, thanks to that beast in there—"

"DON'T call him a beast—"

"BEAST, BEAST, BEAST! RUDDY UGLY BEAST WHO DESERVES NOTHING BUT DEATH—"

"Actually," interjected Nott loudly, staring at them with calm bemusement. "I do believe we should grant him a fair trial."

Draco ogled him, utterly floored. Aside from him and Malcolm, he had been sure, dead sure, that Nott would want the werewolf executed. So the fact that he had miscalculated where Nott stood in this matter threw Draco for a loop.

"Granger's right," Nott said simply with a shrug. Draco screwed up his face at the ridiculousness of that statement, but Nott continued, "It would be unjust of us to execute him without getting the whole story. He should have a chance to defend himself in trial, if he wishes to do so. I think I speak for the entire Werewolf Capture Unit when we say that we do not believe in doling out the death penalty without due process."

For a moment, nobody said anything. Longbottom's mouth had fallen open so wide that Draco would not be surprised if a fly flew in there.

Finally, Granger, having found her tongue, stammered, "Y-yes. Exactly. Thank you, Theodore. We should prepare for trial straightaway. I believe we should keep the werewolf here for another night at least until we can—"

"You CAN'T be serious!" yelled Draco, incredulous.

Granger bristled in that distinctly self-righteous way of hers that he hated so much. "Yes, Malfoy, we are dead serious, as you can see from the absence of laughter in this conversation. Now if you would please tell Bulstrode to put away his axe—"

But Draco had had enough. Face livid with anger, he walked right up to Granger until he was literally nose to nose with her insufferably defiant face—and hissed: "Shut _up_, you dirty mudbl—"

He felt himself being yanked back, so hard that he fell to the ground in a heap of tangled robes. Draco looked up, furious, and saw Nott's equally outraged face staring down at him, wands out and pointing at his chest. So his former housemate was taking the Mudblood's side yet again. Well, he expected nothing less from someone who betrayed his own father.

With as much dignity as he could muster, Draco got to his feet, straightening his robes as he did so. He glared at all of them, especially at Nott, and spat, "You're all making a big mistake. Mark my words—you'll regret your decision soon enough."

And with that, he gestured for Malcolm to follow him, and the two of them stalked out of the forest. Though he was still seething inside, Draco reassured himself with the knowledge that all was not lost. The others might have thought he'd given up, but he knew better. Granger herself had unwittingly revealed to him what must be done.

Tonight, in the cover of darkness, he and Malcolm would visit the werewolf in his paddock again, and this time there would be no mercy.

* * *

**Author's Note: **First off, thanks to all those who read and favorited/followed Chapter One, especially Twilighternproud and Anonymous for leaving encouraging reviews! I didn't get as far in the plot as I wanted to in this chapter, but I hope you guys still enjoyed it nonetheless. I work full-time during the week, so my goal is to put up at least one chapter per weekend (hopefully lengthy chapters like this one so it's worth the wait!). And of course, any form of encouragement, no matter how small, goes a long way toward motivating me throughout the week, so do leave a review if you're liking where the story's going! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** For those of you who followed, favorited, or commented on this story thus far:

I. LOVE. YOU.

Like Hagrid loves Norbert the Norwegian Ridgeback.

Like Merope loves Tom Riddle.

Like Dobby loves socks.

Yeah, maybe it's kinda gross, maybe it's kinda bordering on obsessive-stalker-chick, but there's no doubt that it's REAL.

Baby-dragon-love-potion-crazy-elf real, y'all.

#awks #drunktalk #drunkonLIFE #ineedsleep

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Hermione paced back and forth, unable to fall asleep. It was hours later, and she was in one of the many spare guest rooms at Hogwarts, a sumptuous chamber with deep garnet curtains and stately oak-paneled walls that were meant to exude comfort and warmth.

Not that it worked. Her mind was anything but relaxed.

She was still seething at Malfoy, of course—she had half a mind to _Scourgify_ his mouth the next time he even thought about spitting the word "Mudblood" at her—but aside from that, there were so many unanswered questions swirling around in her head.

Where did the werewolf come from?

How did he even enter the grounds in the first place?

Why did he apologize for biting Dennis Creevey then turn himself in? Does that mean he has a conscience? Or does that mean he has something up his sleeve?

Why didn't the Werewolf Capture Unit leave for Hogwarts at once when they got the message? She was highly dubious of Nott's no-Apparition zone excuse—these guys were _trained_ to find ways around something like that. And while she was on the subject of the WCU, why did Theodore Nott—quote-unquote Wolf Hunter—take her side against Malfoy? She thought they were friends, and even if they weren't, surely Nott's defense of a "Mudblood" must have been a breach of the Slytherin code of honor or something equally ridiculous?

And finally, the recurring question of the day:

Why was Malfoy a complete and utter _prat_?

Hermione shook that last question out of her head. It was no use trying to figure that one out now, not when she'd spent the past nine or so years trying—and failing—to find any other reason for Malfoy's obnoxious nature other than the fact that he simply enjoyed being a wanker. But the other questions tumbled around and around in her mind until she felt like they were going to implode.

Quite without realizing it, her feet took her over to the window where the grounds were bathed in the blood-red glow of the dying sun. The Forbidden Forest was ablaze in the crimson light, almost as if someone had set fire to the trees to try and smoke out a certain secret prisoner within…

Hermione shook her head and sighed. It was sad—deplorable, really—how many misconceptions revolved around so many magical creatures and beings in the wizarding community. Of course, she understood the shock at having a full-fledged and transformed werewolf prowling the grounds of what was supposed to be a safe haven for many young wizards and witches, and naturally the fact that a student was fatally wounded, not to mention permanently scarred for life, was tragic; but to Hermione, those things did not warrant instant death. They did not warrant the use of chains and shackles and a godforsaken paddock, as if it was not a man in there with an unfortunate affliction but a fire-breathing dragon. At the very least, Hermione felt that the werewolf, whoever he was, deserved a chance to explain himself, a chance that Malfoy was only all too happy to take away.

She watched the sun sink lower and lower beneath the horizon, struggling to fight her own sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Even the breathtaking sight of the first few stars glimmering against the now-dusky lavender sky was not enough to lift Hermione's flagging spirit. There was still so much to be done. So many loose ends left to tie.

And that was when she saw it. A dark blur in the velvety darkness. A movement that should not have been there.

Squinting, Hermione could just make out the rough outlines of two cloaked figures emerging from the shadow of the castle and slinking off toward the darkening forest.

Something akin to white-hot rage reared in her heart like an ugly snake. There could only be two people in the entire castle who would stand to gain from a little twilit visit down to the forest.

Malfoy and Bulstrode.

* * *

By the time she made her way out of the castle and onto the grounds, the sky had ripened to a dark purple bruise of a color, which Hermione hoped would be the color of Malfoy's eye after she hit him with a Shiner Hex. Taking care not to make too much noise, she glided along the edge of the forest, tracing the path that the two cloaked figures had taken just minutes ago. Her wand was tightly gripped in her right hand, ready to be whipped out and put to use at a moment's notice. Before long, she could hear voices, and Hermione skirted behind a few trees so as not to be seen.

"Me? Why do I have to climb in?"

"Don't be thick, Bulstrode. Of course it's got to be you. How else are you going to get close enough to take a swing with that axe?"

"I'm not goin' in there, Malfoy. He's dangerous, he is. I'm not risking my life, I'm not."

"For crying out loud, he's _asleep_! Plus, you're bloody BIGGER than him, you stupid oaf! Just go in there, wallop him in the back of the head, and get this over with!"

"I dunno, Malfoy… I dunno. I'd feel more comfortable if you stun him first... or something..."

"Oh, very well, you stupid fool. Stand aside now, stand aside. _Stupe_—"

"_Expelliarmus_!"

Malfoy's wand flew out of his hand and soared straight into Hermione's waiting one. She watched, with some amusement, as a dumbstruck Malfoy whipped around to face her.

"You!" yelled Malfoy, his long nose scrunched with disgust.

"Me," said Hermione coolly. She saw Bulstrode make a slow, not-so-furtive moment and flicked her wand in his direction. In an instant, his wand also flew into her hand.

Malfoy stomped over to her, his face like a charging bull. "_What_ do you think you're doing, Granger?"

She adopted the calmest look she could muster even though her blood was boiling. "Why, sabotaging your plan, of course."

"You"—he jabbed her, hard, in the chest—"are making a big mistake! That monster needs to be put to death before he inflicts any more harm! I'm doing you all a big favor—"

Hermione hissed like an angry cat. "_Favor_? How is arbitrarily killing someone a favor, Malfoy? What kind of a cruel, sadistic—"

"Well, at least I'm not a bloody know-it-all who sticks her nose in where it doesn't belong! This isn't part of your job description, Granger! Leave it to people who actually know what they're doing—"

"_Excuse_ _me_? I know exactly what I'm doing! I'm saving _him_ from the likes of a prejudiced brute like _you_!"

"He doesn't need saving! He deserves a beheading, that's what—"

They bickered like this, in short, overlapping bursts, for God knows how long. But then, quite suddenly, the atmosphere shifted. Smooth, velvety darkness pressed in on all sides.

Night had fallen.

And that's when she heard it. The low growl behind them.

Dread spread through her stomach like a chill she couldn't shake off. She knew what she would see even before she looked up. And sure enough—the sky was studded with winking stars and smeared with wispy clouds. It might have looked serene to Hermione, pretty even, if not for the ominous glow of the orb-like moon.

Fear shot up Hermione's spine, and before she could gather her wits about her, she heard a terrible shredding sound, an earsplitting roar, the clanks and scrapes of chains and shackles straining to contain a very large body—

And next second, she was knocked to the ground—her cheeks scraped the grass—something heavy fell on top of her—Malfoy's voice yelled in her ear:

"_RUUUUUN__!_"

But it was too late. She was frozen with fear. A horrible scraping sound—the likes of which Hermione had never heard before—ripped across the air. And she knew. She knew the werewolf had freed itself from its fetters.

She had seen an adult werewolf once before, years ago when Remus Lupin had also transformed on these very grounds, but the years must have addled her memory, for she'd quite forgotten just how menacing and _scary_ a full-grown werewolf could be. Longer, leaner, and bigger than a regular wolf, this werewolf had a coarse mane that stood on end, and due to his constant twitching and snarling, Hermione thought he looked quite rabid. Demented. Dangerous.

She scrambled to her feet—only to trip on her own robes. Cursing, she whipped out her wand, just as the werewolf's spine-chilling howl rendered the air. She knew it was only a matter of time, minutes and seconds before the werewolf would sense them and leap over the paddock fence—

A loud _thud_ sounded nearby.

Bulstrode had fainted.

And in the half-second that it took for Hermione to glance over at Bulstrode, the werewolf, sensing her presence now, had leapt over the fence, and suddenly—all too suddenly—she had the wind knocked out of her, her nose was assaulted with the damp stench of mangy, unwashed fur—and the werewolf was on top of her and half-drowning her with ropy strands of saliva—her screams died in her throat as claws like knives sank into her chest, pinning her to the ground, rendering her immobile—

The bite would come soon, she knew it—it was only a matter of time—

"_Stupefy!_"

A burst of red light knocked into the werewolf, sending him flying. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything. The wolf had attacked her. _Attacked _her. Her wounded chest still throbbed with raw pain.

Something—or some_one_—seized her arm.

"Granger! Get up! Get _up_—quick!"

Malfoy yanked her with such force that she cried out, not out of pain but out of shock.

"Damn it, Granger, get up! We have to go! We have to—_oof_!"

It took her almost a minute to realize what had happened. Malfoy was still hovering over her, light blond strands falling into his pale face, his hands still gripping her arms.

But something was different.

Gone were the fear and frustration flashing in his gunmetal eyes. Instead, they were frozen with shock. Pure unadulterated shock.

Her eyes fell to the gleaming row of yellow, razor-like teeth half-buried in Malfoy's shoulder. She took in the great mangy head poised over Malfoy's shoulder, almost nestled into the white crook of his neck as if they were lovers engaged in a playful embrace. The triumphant gleam in the werewolf's eyes as he claimed his prize. Bile rose in her throat as the truth slammed into her.

Malfoy had been bitten.


End file.
